Sherlock Gets Horny When High
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Moriarty drugs Sherlock and sends him on home to his I'm-not-gay flatmate. John fends off Sherlock's persistent advances (apparently Sherlock gets horny when high and has a secret thing for John?) and puts him safely to bed. In the aftermath of Sherlock's embarrassing revelations, John comes to terms with the fact that Sherlock's interest isn't entirely unreciprocated . . .
1. Chapter 1

"John, I need you!"

"Jesus, Sherlock, where've you been?" John put down his book and watched his flatmate shake the snow off his coat before hanging it crookedly on the peg beside the door. "You just disappeared this morning with no explanation. And you haven't been answering your bloody phone."

"I need you for sex, John," Sherlock announced with a grin. "Lots and lots of sex."

"Um." _I couldn't have heard that right_. "What?"

**"Sex!"** Sherlock shouted. And grinned again. It was his creepy look-see-I-can-do-human-expressions-too grin that never really reassured witnesses as much as he thought it did. "I need you to fuck me."

Hearing the word _fuck _come out of Sherlock's mouth so casually like that certainly did interesting things to John's insides, but there was something off about it. Besides the obvious. "Sherlock - what's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," Sherlock chirped. "Just been thinking about you and your cock all day. It's finally time we do something about it." He dropped his gaze to John's crotch, currently obscured by his book. "And by 'do something about it' I mean I need you to jam your cock in my mouth and make me beg for it. Or up my arse; I'm not picky."

_"Jesus_, Sherlock." John stood, carefully, and drew to within an arm's length of his flatmate. "What brought this on?"

Sherlock pinched his lips flat together, his eyes wide. Pupils totally dilated. _Shit_.

"You're high, aren't you?"

It wasn't really a question - Sherlock's half-second of indecision before starting to deny it told John everything he needed to know anyway - but having it confirmed was still a bit of a blow. "Shit. Sherlock, what did you take?"

"Didn't," Sherlock whispered. He parted his lips and leaned forward, angling for John's mouth-

"No." John took two steps back and folded his arms over his chest. "You tell me right this instant, Sherlock Bloody Holmes. _What did you take?"_

Sherlock's expression shuttered into a pout that would have done a toddler proud. "Didn't take anything," he grumbled. "Moriarty did it."

"Did what?"

"Injected it for me."

_"Shit."_ John sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself not to storm outside right now and hunt down the bastard. "You better sit down and tell me _exactly _what happened to you today."

Sherlock followed him obediently to the sofa, but when John sat, Sherlock crawled practically on top of him. John shoved him off with a gentle but firm swipe of his elbow, and they eventually compromised on John sitting normally and Sherlock lying half-draped over his good shoulder like a fucking cat. He was radiating an unbelievable amount of body heat, despite the snow outside.

"So what happened?"

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath, but condescended to actually talk. "I went to the morgue to ask Molly about the hemophiliac she got yesterday."

"The one who died from a broken nose?"

"Yes, him." Sherlock burrowed his forehead further into John's neck, rubbing his cheek back and forth against the collar of John's jumper. "You smell nice, John."

"Focus, please. What happened when you went to the morgue?"

"Molly turned me down. I had to walk a block to find a cab home. And I got a text from you. I was checking my phone when someone jabbed me with something and shoved me into a car that was idling on the kerb. Not a taxi. Felt like a tranquilizer - everything slowed down and my muscles wouldn't respond."

"Okay - notice anything about the car? Something we can track down?"

"Moriarty was in it?"

"Fuck." John turned his face away so Sherlock wouldn't see the instinctive reaction he had to that bloody name. Moriarty was a fucking sociopath - not the fake kind, like Sherlock liked to pretend to be, but an honest-to-god lunatic and John would have had no qualms about shooting the bastard if he ever had the chance. "Tell me," he repeated.

Sherlock shrugged, an achievement all to itself given his current impersonation of a deer tick attaching itself to John's trapezius. "He had a needle and I couldn't fight him off. It's all right, though."

"Bloody hell - how in the fuck can this be all right?"

"Because I can finally tell you how much I want you to fuck me." Sherlock shifted, the new position giving him unfettered access to John's earlobe, which he immediately proceeded to start teasing with his mouth. The sensation sent a shiver down John's spine, but this seemed like a terrible time to admit it. He shoved Sherlock away, instead, putting a good two feet of space between them.

"What the fuck, Sherlock?"

"Mmmmm." Hummed in _that _way in _that _octave, the noise prompted John to shiver again. Which Sherlock noticed, the bastard. "You want this," he murmured. "Want me."

"You're high. What did he give you?"

"Dunno." Sherlock shrugged languidly, the undulation traveling through his entire torso. "Feels a bit like cocaine. I always get horny when I take cocaine. I spent the rest of the drive back to Baker Street thinking about how your cock would taste. And how it would feel inside, stretching me."

"This is all not good, Sherlock, you realize that?" John felt like the world's biggest asshole for getting even the least bit hard at Sherlock's admission, given his state, but he really couldn't help the way his cock twitched at that sinfully deep tone. "Do you want me to call Mycroft?"

"Mmmm, want you to take me to bed."

Sherlock shifted closer, but John leapt up and backed away. "I'm not going to take advantage of you while you're high."

"Why not?" Sherlock blinked up at him, hurt in his eyes. "I know you're not gay, but Moriarty said I just needed to proposition you and if you loved me back, you'd let me suck you."

_"Moriarty_ said?" John skipped right over the implications of _if you loved me back_ for the time being. "You're doing this on the advice of the psychopath who put me in a semtex vest and tried to kill us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking for a moment like his normal self. "He _said _it, John, but I already _knew_. I fantasize about you all the time when I wank, you know. Nearly every morning in the shower. And that one time when you were pulling one off in bed and you didn't close the door all the way and I could stand on the stairs and eavesdrop. I masturbated to that one for ages."

_"Jesus_, Sherlock!"

"What? You're already fascinated by me, I can tell. You've wondered." Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's crotch. "Don't you want to know what my mouth would feel like around your cock? What my arse would feel like? I won't make you use a condom, you know - I have for everyone else, but I won't for you."

"We're not - we're not doing that. Definitely not while you're high." _Jesus bloody fuck._

"But when I come back down - we can do it then?"

John sighed, suddenly too tired to argue anymore. Like arguing with Sherlock did any good at the best of times; it was even more pointless now. "Come to bed, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face lit up. "To fuck?"

"To _sleep_." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and half-guided, half-towed him down the hall toward his bedroom. "You're of no use to anyone until you come down off this - whatever-it-is - and then get some sleep and some calories."

"Stay with me?"

_Damn it._ "I can't very well leave you alone right now, so yes. I'll stay."

"Can I at least lick you a while?" Sherlock asked hopefully. "I bet I can make you come without your cock actually penetrating my mouth."

"_Bed_, you great git."

John got Sherlock mostly undressed and under the covers, partly by threats and partly by not flinching away when Sherlock pawed at him. Which - John had to admit - Sherlock was very good at. Even while half out of his mind. Any other time, John would have been intrigued. Now, though . . .

There wasn't much furniture in the room, aside from the bed and Sherlock's wardrobe, so John retrieved one of the kitchen chairs and his paperback and took up a vigil near the doorway.

"Can't touch you way over there," Sherlock murmured, writhing sensuously against the bedsheets. Some ridiculously high threadcount, as far as John could tell.

"That's the idea."

"Mmmmm." Sherlock yawned and stilled, gaze locked firmly on John. "Cocaine always makes me more tactile. And horny."

"I see that."

"Would have preferred to be snuggled up with you. S'nice."

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

And eventually, Sherlock slept.


	2. Chapter 2

"John, you have a beautiful philtrum."

John jerked awake, setting off a painful twinge in his shoulder. It took a moment to register why his surroundings felt strange - he was dozing in an uncomfortable chair in Sherlock's bedroom, apparently. With Sherlock lying sprawled on the bed, sheets mostly flung off in his sleep, eyeing him. "Pardon?"

Sherlock stretched - showcasing more neck than any man really ought to have - and shifted to lie flat on his back. "I was just thinking about your philtrum, and how you have a particularly nice one. It wasn't entirely a coherent thought." He yawned. "Never grow a moustache, though - be a shame to cover it up."

"Ah." John was fairly certain nobody had ever mentioned his philtrum to him before, beautiful or otherwise. Thinking about it made it tickle, though, so he ran a hand over his face and pretended it was because he was still a bit groggy. It didn't take much pretending. "How are you feeling?" he asked instead.

"Not high anymore."

"Okay." John ran a mostly-medical eye over Sherlock's lazy sprawl. "You sure?"

Sherlock huffed. "I think I'd know what being high feels like, thank you. I slept through the aftereffects."

_Right_. "You just complimented my philtrum, Sherlock. Figured I should check."

"Not still high, I'm just . . ." Sherlock hauled himself up to a sitting position, bunching the sheets in his lap. "Just still half-asleep. I guess I was due."

"When did you last sleep?"

"What day is today?"

"Seriously?" John popped the display up on his phone. "Saturday morning, half past eight. You were out for almost twelve hours."

"Forty-seven hours ago, then." Sherlock got halfway through rolling his shoulders, then froze and looked at John again. "You stayed there all night?"

"Yeah." John shrugged. "You weren't sure what Moriarty gave you, and I wanted to keep an eye on your breathing. Any more insight on what it was all about, then?" _If he can pretend nothing happened, I can too_. "I mean, what do you think Moriarty was trying to accomplish?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, looking almost sheepish. "I, um. Probably exactly what ended up happening."

"You sleeping for a whole twelve hours?"

"I also propositioned you last night. Rather bluntly, I think." Sherlock was definitely looking sheepish now. "God, I wish he had given me something that would have interfered with memory - then I could say it wasn't what I meant."

John didn't have any answer to that.

Sherlock waited, obviously expecting John to shoot him down, but that just drew out the awkwardness. Eventually he rolled his eyes and heaved a theatrical sigh. "You're going to make me say it? Surely his point was obvious to you too?"

"Um, no. Not at all." Somehow Sherlock managed to pull off the imperious _how-does-your-little-brain-even-let-you-manage-autonomic-functions-you-moron_ look just as well when half-dressed in a sheet, John noticed. "Care to explain with small words?"

"You're essential to The Work. You should know that by now." Sherlock was looking everywhere except at him. "You're also heterosexual. Most heterosexual men would be embarrassed and disgusted at getting attention from a gay man. As such, I've tried very hard to minimize those aspects of my personality so as to keep you from becoming uncomfortable."

John blinked. "I think this is the strangest coming-out speech I've ever heard, and I was there when Harry announced what, exactly, she found the most fuckable about my then-girlfriend. With both our parents and my girlfriend in the room."

"Let me finish, please."

"Sorry."

"So." Sherlock cleared his throat. "That little omission was . . . one of my exploitable weaknesses. Moriarty found it."

"What, you think I'm going to throw a tantrum just because you're gay?" John didn't know whether to be sad that Sherlock felt he had to hide it or insulted that he thought John would be a dick over the whole thing. He made himself settle for sad. "You know I meant it when I said it's all fine, right?"

Sherlock shot him a quelling look. "'Fine' in the abstract, I can believe. 'Fine' that this has become . . . more than a friendship . . . to me? That's a lot more to ask. And Moriarty was counting on that."

_Right_. "So." John returned Sherlock's stare. "The idea was for you to drug you off your arse, you'd hit on me, and I'd move out in some big snit because I can't handle any threat to my fragile masculinity."

Sherlock slouched a bit further down in the bed. "That would be understandable, yes."

"Was he expecting I'd take advantage of you while you were high like that?" The idea made John want to throw something. "Because I'm not that guy, Sherlock. It was pretty obvious you weren't feeling yourself."

"Doesn't mean I was lying," Sherlock grumbled.

"Do you _want _me to move out?"

"No." The answer was immediate.

"Then I won't." John laced his fingers behind his head and tilted the chair back on two legs so he could lean his shoulders against the wall. _Got to keep this relaxed or Sherlock will bolt_. "Honestly, I'm shocked you haven't deduced that about me already. If I had a problem with people thinking I was gay, I would have left ages ago. People have done nothing _but _talk ever since we moved in together. I have to disabuse someone or other about our relationship on at least a weekly basis."

"You always do correct them."

"Yeah, because they're wrong." John shrugged. "Pretty sure there's an 'Avenue Q' song about this - something about 'If you were gay, that'd be okay.' It's _really _not an issue for me." He felt a twitch of completely inappropriate amusement at Sherlock's look of total confusion. "It's a musical, Sherlock. Never mind."

"But John . . ." Sherlock was nearly curled into a ball on the bed, now, his knees drawn up to his chest under the sheets. "I'm not . . . it's not . . . you know that I've been thinking about you sexually now. I admitted to _masturbating _about you. If I were straight, you wouldn't have to put up with knowing that."

_Bloody git always has to go and make everything complicated_. "Look," John said. "I don't want to leave. You don't want me to go. You're gay and that doesn't bother me. You've got a bit of a thing for me and that's fine, you've been great at hiding it and it's a bit flattering, actually, even though I'm not usually into men. If you don't let this bother you, I won't let it bother me. Deal?"

Sherlock gaped at him for several seconds before abruptly shutting his mouth and blinking away his shock. "Everything back to normal?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I accept."

John could feel Sherlock's eyes following him even after he returned the chair to the kitchen and went upstairs to the safety of his own room.


	3. Chapter 3

It was mid-afternoon when John's phone chirped with a new text. John shot a look at Sherlock's bedroom door - behind which Sherlock had been brooding for the better part of the day - and pulled up the text without even glancing at the number beyond noticing that it wasn't Sherlock's.

_You're missing out. - JM_

It was accompanied by a picture. John stared at it for a full ten seconds before hauling himself to his feet and going to knock.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, Moriarty just sent me a picture of his dick."

_That _got a response. Sherlock snapped open the door (he'd finally put on his dressing gown, John noted) and grabbed the phone. He scrutinized the photo for several seconds, then handed the phone back and started to retreat into his room. "It's not his. Delete it."

John wasn't entirely sure whether Sherlock meant "delete it from your phone's memory" or whether he truly thought John could wipe things from his memory the way consulting detectives apparently could, but that was a minor concern in comparison to the glaring revelation in Sherlock's statement.

"_Please _tell me you don't have an intimate knowledge of Moriarty's cock. Or - actually, no, don't tell me anything. I really don't want to know."

Sherlock paused, his back to the doorway, and John could practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I haven't slept with Moriarty, if that's what your asking. Being gay doesn't mean I'm indiscriminate. I knew it wasn't his because I recognized the penis in question."

"Oh, god, sorry," John said automatically. "I'm just - Moriarty sending me his dick pics is bad enough. Sending me _someone else's_ dick picks is just weird. Do you think it's a code or something?" He took a second to parse what Sherlock had just said. "Wait - you recognized the _penis_? Just like that? Keep a database, do you?"

Sherlock whirled and glared. "I'm not-"

"-not a slag, yeah, I heard. Plus I know you," John said. "I just wouldn't put it past you to have researched something like that. Purely for academic purposes."

_Ding._

Sherlock made a grab for the phone, but John held it away from him to get the first look. Another text, same number, no words this time. Just a second picture. This one was from a slightly different angle, and the cock in the center of the photo was noticeably more erect. John flipped back to the first picture - they certainly looked like they could be of the same person, although John really hadn't studied penises in enough detail to make a comparative analysis-

_Ding. Ding._

Sherlock was just staring at him now, with big puppy-dog eyes, but John couldn't resist looking at the other two pictures. One was of a man's arsehole, stretched wide around a large black butt plug, the man's hands clenched tightly against the backs of his thighs to keep his legs spread for the camera. It was a stunning photo, one John would have taken a few minutes to commit to memory in other circumstances, but curiosity had him popping to the next one-

"Sherlock." The phone fell from John's suddenly-numb fingers. It bounced once on the wooden floorboards and settled at an angle between them, the final picture displayed proudly. Of a wide-eyed younger Sherlock staring up at the camera, face streaked with come.

"I . . . " Sherlock licked his lips, but otherwise didn't move. "I didn't know Victor had kept those pictures. I would have asked Mycroft to do something about it, if I had known."

"Sherlock." John hauled in a deep breath, then slowly bent to pick up the phone and hand it to his flatmate. "Here - go ahead and delete them. I'm sorry."

"No point now, is there?" Sherlock said bitterly. "If Moriarty sent them once, he can send them again. To anyone. I'd best resign myself to the whole world knowing what I look like when I'm high."

"Hey." John pressed the phone against Sherlock's abdomen, held it there until Sherlock took it, then pushed past him to go sit on the edge of his bed. "That's not you anymore, and we both know it. Moriarty's an ass and I'll very happily shoot him for you later, but right now you look like you need to sit down before you pass out."

Sherlock tottered on wobbly legs to the other side of the bed, where he collapsed into a sulky pile of limbs. "I hate him," he muttered into the hem of his dressing gown where it rode up over his knees.

"Me too." John dared a bit of an encouraging smile. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but I'm willing to listen if you do."

"I . . ." Sherlock flailed sulkily until he was lying on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow. "I did a lot of cocaine in uni," he said in a muffled voice.

"I'd suspected something of the sort," John answered.

"With the cocaine came the sex." Sherlock twisted his torso so he could see John's face. "I did a lot of men in uni, too."

"Not going to judge. I had my fair share of army flings, too. Mostly women, but not always."

Sherlock blinked at this and took a moment to assimilate. "I get horny when I'm high," he finally said. "And in the right circumstances, I . . . _fuck_. This is intolerable."

"Want me to leave you alone?"

"No, it's okay. You should know." Sherlock was very definitely blushing, now, a beautiful rose stain across those striking cheekbones. "I, um."

John waited patiently, silently willing Sherlock to continue.

"I get turned on being humiliated in bed," Sherlock admitted. "The more mortifying, the better. The bloke I stayed with the longest - Victor - was the only one who seemed to really like it for its own sake, and not just because he wanted to lord it over me later when I wasn't high anymore. He liked to record it. Me. Being degraded in whatever depraved ways he could come up with."

"Did you want him to?" John asked. "Not the sharing the pictures with Moriarty, obviously, but were you okay with it at the time?" He met Sherlock's eyes squarely. "Still not judging," he added. "Just making sure."

Sherlock turned his face away, but nodded. "It was all consensual, if you don't count the cocaine."

"Right." John thought a moment about how to phrase his next question delicately. "How about without the cocaine? Um. Do you still - is it - is that what you like?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John waited in agonizing silence, kicking himself. _Fuck, that was a terrible thing to ask_. It wasn't like he could even justify it as a medical question, not with-

Sherlock rolled over suddenly, uncurling onto his back as he did so. The line of his erection was clearly visible through his thin boxers. "Apparently," he muttered. "I'd never had the chance to find out, before."

_Oh. OH._ John knew he should say something doctorial, something bland and reassuring, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the bulge in Sherlock's pants. Sherlock. Aroused. Hard and embarrassed and apparently very, very ready. John's fingers itched to reach out and stroke and _fuck_, where had that impulse come from?

He was crap at hiding things. Things like this, specifically. Sherlock always knew immediately when John had just come back from a successful shag at the end of a date, when he'd barely merited a good-night kiss, when he'd come home frustrated and aching and dying for a wank up in the privacy of his room. John knew the chances of Sherlock _not _noticing his interest - and his own growing erection - were next to zero. Still, though, Sherlock lay there quietly on the bed looking up at him, naked need in his eyes. _Waiting_. Hoping?

"Tell me what you want," John whispered.

The shape in Sherlock's boxers twitched. Sherlock looked on the verge of tears, but whether they were tears of humiliation or desperation or something else entirely, John couldn't tell. It was all he could do to keep his gaze on Sherlock's face and not just blatantly stare at his crotch. And still Sherlock lay there on his side, nearly trembling, staring back-

_Fuck it_. **"Sherlock. Tell me."**

Sherlock bit his lip and shivered. _"Yes,"_ whispered. "Please, John. Whatever it is, _yes_."


	4. Chapter 4

"Right, then." John finally gave in to the impulse to have a good long stare. Sherlock's cock was certainly impressive, even while mostly hidden by his boxers - whatever else might be said about the situation, Sherlock was very definitely turned on. And if he wanted more . . .

"Take off your pants," John decided. "I want you naked so you can't hide from me. And give me my mobile back - you won't be needing it."

Sherlock wordlessly handed over the phone. He pulled off his boxers with a little shimmy of his hips which would have made John hard all on its own if he hadn't been well on his way there already. John wasn't lying - most of his experience _had _been with women, but in a war zone you sometimes make curious friendships. And if one or two of those friendships happened to spill over into hot, desperate, life-affirming shagging whenever you survived a particularly touch-and-go mission . . . _I've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I guess._

"I _will _stop if you want me to," John announced as he dropped his own trousers and pants and stepped out of them. "Maybe someday we can worry about safewords and all that rot, but for right now 'no' does just fine. Understood?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. John could practically see him mulling over the possibilities in _someday_. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, none of that either." John peeled off his shirt, then folded all his clothes neatly and set them on Sherlock's bedside table, the one clear surface in the room. "I'm not Victor - I assume he went in for all that 'sir' stuff?"

"Yes s- erm, yes he did."

"Yeah, that's not really my thing, so I hope you don't mind this being a bit different. I'm not going to bully you around outside this room, but I'm damn well going to take advantage of you like this if you want to let me. It's a perfect solution, actually - you can annoy me all you want out there-" - he waved toward the door to indicate the rest of London - "-and I can get my own back in here. Probably make me less irritable all-around. And you?" He reached down to grab Sherlock's bollocks - not tight enough to hurt, but close. Definitely a claiming. "_You_ are probably going to be getting off. A lot. Starting right now."

Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled back in his skull at the feel of John's hand. _"Aah,"_ he moaned.

"Agreed?"

Sherlock lifted his head just enough to meet John's gaze. "Anything. Please."

"In that case . . ." John let go abruptly and backed away from the bed. Still naked, but feeling much more in control. "I can't help but notice that Victor forgot something. In those pictures. Stay right there while I go get it." He couldn't resist tracing one forefinger up the line of Sherlock's cock. It really was gorgeous. "Get comfortable, but no touching. For the next half-hour or so, this is _mine_."

* * *

><p>When John got back from upstairs, Sherlock was exactly where he'd left him. John clambered up on the bed and straddled his thighs, pinning his hips down to the mattress. Sherlock's eyes were wide but he kept his mouth shut.<p>

"You liked having photos taken of you," John said. "Tell me about that."

Sherlock swallowed hard and gamely tried to explain. "He would - before we got high, we'd both strip. There's something thrillingly perverse about shooting up naked. And then he'd manhandle me over to the bed and throw me down on it. Front or back, didn't matter. He'd let me start feeling the effects of the cocaine, but not touch me until I was half-desperate already. Just sit there and stroke himself while I writhed. Then, when I was just about ready to agree to _anything_, he'd show me whatever he'd planned. And he'd always make me beg for it."

John lowered a hand to Sherlock's cock, stroking it with barely-there pressure. "What kinds of things would he plan? And which did you like best?"

"I . . ." Sherlock was flushed all over, now, the red stain covering not only his cheeks but a large portion of his neck and chest as well. "He'd use toys, sometimes, to see what I could take," he admitted. "Or he'd order me to touch myself, to get absolutely dripping and almost ready to come, and then he'd make me wait until my high wore off and I was shivering with the denial. Sometimes he'd wank over me, then make me lie there until it had all dried before he'd jerk me off. It varied."

John could definitely see the appeal - even just talking about it, Sherlock's cock was completely erect and starting to leak. And based on just trying to get him to bed last night, John now knew that Sherlock could be _very_ talented with those long fingers. Probably with his tongue as well, based on the promises he'd been making while high. And if John was the one getting to call the shots . . .

_Right. Time for more later._ John tightened his grip on Sherlock's cock and gave it two or three good pumps. "We're going to talk about this a different time, Sherlock. When we're both clothed and can actually think rationally. Because right now, I'm not exactly at my most logical. I just want to claim you and make you _mine_."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said immediately. "Anything - please. Do it."

"You'll agree without even knowing what I want?"

"I trust you," Sherlock answered immediately. Then, with a bit of a smirk, he added, "it's obvious, isn't it?"

_Oh really?_ John glanced down at the bottle of lube and the thick Sharpie marker he'd tossed negligently on the bedspread next to them. Maybe it was a bit obvious. Too damn bad. "I don't specifically get off on embarrassing you," he said, reaching for the marker. "That's just going to be a by-product of me being an absolute caveman about this."

"Do it."

"This isn't going to come off for several days, you know."

Sherlock's whole body rippled in one giant shiver of anticipation. _"Mark me, John. Please."_

"Right then." John leaned forward to stabilize himself on his elbow. The position left his cheek in near proximity to Sherlock's cock, and he couldn't resist sneaking a little taste. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, then let it out shakily.

**Property of John Watson.** He wrote it in large, clear letters, covering the majority of Sherlock's stomach, then added an arrow pointing directly to Sherlock's cock. In smaller block letters, he added **THESE** to Sherlock's right thigh and **TOO** to his left, with arrows pointing upward to his bollocks. "Can you see?" he asked, as he sat back to admire his work.

_"Oh Christ,"_ Sherlock breathed. He had to hold his head at an awkward angle to see without actually sitting up, but he didn't seem to mind. "I want to get that as a tattoo."

"Mmm, I'd have to abstain from fucking you until it healed. Not sure I'd be okay with allowing that."

_"Fuck."_ Sherlock's head slammed back into his pillow.

"No way - pictures first." John copped another good squeeze, then hopped off Sherlock's legs and dashed out into the hallway to grab the first framed picture he could reach. Luckily, Sherlock's decorating tastes ran to "strange portraits of dead scientists in odd places all over the flat" and the nearest was only about four steps from Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Bringing Niels Bohr into our sex life on the first date? That _is _kinky," Sherlock drawled.

"Not him. Just the frame." John popped the backing off the portrait and let the cardboard, picture, and glass fall gently onto the nightstand on top of his folded clothes. "You're going to hold this, I'm going to take some pictures, and then we can show Moriarty who, exactly, is 'missing' something."

_"Oh."_ Sherlock actually went a bit white, but only a blind man would have missed how his cock pulsed at the threat. "You want to . . ."

"You're _mine _now, Sherlock. You offered all this up to me -" - John gestured toward Sherlock's crotch - "- and I took it._ I own you now_. And you love it." He watched Sherlock's face closely, alert to any sign that his bluff was going too far, but all he saw was embarrassment and arousal. No fear. Sherlock was fucking amazing.

He took three shots, in the end - and for all of them, he made Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider and hold the picture frame at just the right distance to center everything. The black lines of the Sharpie stood out perfectly against Sherlock's pale skin, and Sherlock's body hair was sparse enough to not obscure the lettering even on his thighs. The ornate gold picture frame loaned it a debauched, surreal air. _Perfect_.

"Want to see?" John pulled up the display and turned the phone so Sherlock could see the screen. "That's you. So turned on you're leaking all over your stomach and I've barely even touched you. _Mine_."

"_Yes_," Sherlock breathed, eyes never once moving from the tiny screen. "I - _yes_."

"And now the pictures are mine, too," John pressed. "Who do you think should see them? Victor? Or - no, he's already seen you naked. Lestrade, then. Or Mycroft."

_Ooh_, that got a response, Sherlock's breath quickening until it was almost panting. His eyes were wide, unfocused, but he didn't look to be in distress. In fact, he looked -

"That's it, then," John said, withdrawing the phone and already scrolling to his contact list. "Oh, you are disgusting. You'd _like _me to pass this around. For everyone to know just how much you're going to let me do to you. What sort of text should I send with it, I wonder? Any opinions?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and licked his lips, but no sound came out.

"I'll start with something like what you told me, then," John announced, and started typing on the miniature keyboard. One handed - his other hand was already back on Sherlock's cock, alternating between almost-too-tight squeezes and gentle caresses. Sherlock was indeed writhing underneath him, and it was obscenely hot. "I'm going to send this last photo to Mycroft and Lestrade first, telling them you begged me to plug up your arse with the largest toy I could find and then to wank myself out all over that gorgeous chest. I'll tell them I'm planning to make you get a tattoo right here -" - he ran his forefinger up the underside of Sherlock's twitching cock - "- of my signature, so every time you much as piss you'll still have me between your cock and your hand. Forever. You'll never be able to fuck anyone again without me being inside them too."

"_John_." Sherlock bucked and squirmed, pressing up into John's fingers, but John just let his hand rest lightly on Sherlock's skin and no matter how much Sherlock writhed, John kept up his light, teasing strokes.

"There. Sent." John's phone made the _whoosh _of a disappearing text, and Sherlock's eyes got even wider.

"You didn't actually-"

"I did." Well, technically he'd sent the picture and the short text to Sherlock's own phone, which was currently out of batteries and had been forgotten on the kitchen table, but Sherlock didn't need to know that yet. "I'm curious to see what they say. In the meantime, though . . . roll over."

Sherlock flipped immediately. His backside was just as gorgeous as the front. Definitely not feminine, but John was well beyond caring about that particular aspect of things. Sherlock's spine was long and knobbly and John couldn't resist the impulse to lean over and lick a long swipe up it with the flat of his tongue. Sherlock groaned into the pillow.

"I'm going to watch you," John announced. He swung himself back up onto Sherlock's legs, sitting back on his heels so his feet were jammed between Sherlock's thighs and his shins were pinning Sherlock's quadriceps down. He squirted a leisurely dollop of lube into his own palm, then finally allowed himself to touch his own neglected cock. _Holy fuck_. He had to stop after just a few strokes, afraid he'd get to the point of no return too quickly. "You comfortable down there?"

Sherlock grunted and wriggled his hips a bit.

"Feel good?"

"Always," he mumbled.

"Excellent." John added a fresh dab of lube to his right index finger, then brought it down to trace the crack of Sherlock's arse. "Because we're getting to the begging. I'm up here, ready to come all over your gorgeous back. And _you _are going to come directly onto your own sheets. Humping them like a stray dog. Keep your hands at your sides - stray dogs don't get to use their hands."

_"Oh god."_ Sherlock's head snapped back at that, his entire spine arching as he ground his hips into the mattress. It couldn't have actually done much for him, not really, but he was already panting like it did. Maybe it was just because John was casually trailing that single finger around the rim of his arsehole, now slick and warm and twitching. John pressed a little harder, breaching with just his fingertip, and Sherlock let out a tiny whine. "_More_."

"When I feel like it." John palmed his own cock again, now, trying to find a rhythm between his right hand in Sherlock's arse and his left hand on himself. "Going to spurt all over your shoulders, your spine, your arse. Going to absolutely cover you with it. Then when you give in and mess yourself, you'll be a come sandwich. I could take a picture. I might just take all your spare sheets, too, so you'll have to sleep in it for a few days. Serves you right for the messes you make around here - messing your own bed seems like a terribly literal case of 'Bed - Made - Lie,' don't you think?" He punctuated the question with a slick twist of his finger, suddenly penetrating all the way past the second knuckle in one smooth motion. Sherlock bucked and pressed his arse further backwards, silently demanding more. Which John gave, slowly and methodically, until Sherlock was very definitely humping his own mattress and making desperate little whimpers and sounding very much like the stray mutt John accused him of being.

And _fuck _if the sight wasn't almost enough to send John over the edge already. He'd been deliberately avoiding Sherlock's prostate, but all of a sudden he was ready to be _there_, to see Sherlock coming apart beneath him. He picked up his pace (both on his own cock and in Sherlock's arse), and finally _finally _let his fingertip graze that sensitive bump inside-

Sherlock yelled. John did it again, just barely touching, but Sherlock was already fucking upwards desperately, his entire body vibrating with need.

"Beg me, Sherlock," John commanded. "Come on - convince me why I should let you come."

"Please," Sherlock panted. "John, I need - _fuck _- I'm close, so close-"

"Yes, but what do I get out of this?" John already couldn't tear his gaze from the single drop of sweat running down Sherlock's back between his shoulderblades, just begging to be licked and sucked. He was shocked his voice still came out sounding somewhat normal - not quite, but then Sherlock wasn't exactly in peak deducing form anyway. "Tell me what you'll do if I let you come."

"I'll be a come sandwich. I'll be naked and sticky and humping my bed like a stray dog and you'll make me sleep in my own come for _days_." His voice was barely recognizable, nearly all breath and no tone, just two steps away from hyperventilating. John rewarded him with a few more direct shots to his prostate. "You'll - _ah! _- you'll take pictures of me all fucked-out and helpless and you'll be able to share them with - with -_ John!" _Sherlock's entire body bowed into an arch as he came, yell muffled somewhat by his face ending up smashed into his pillow. John quickly followed, just imagining that the pulsing around his finger was around his cock instead-

"Mmmph." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and snuggled further down into the mattress, heedless of the fact that he was indeed a sticky mess on two sides. John let his shaky legs stop bothering holding him up, and he crashed down onto the bed next to Sherlock.

"That was . . . _nngh_."

John snorted because laughing would have been too much effort. "Totally agree."

"Pretty sure religions have been started over less."

"Would make for some interesting Sunday sermons, I suppose."

Sherlock murmured something and turned to his side so he could finally make eye contact. "Moriarty underestimated you," he said in a low rumble.

John blinked. "In what way?"

"He had no idea you were so amazing." Sherlock's smile was positively transcendent. "You, Doctor John H. Watson, are a marvel."

It took a moment for the novelty of _Sherlock actually giving honest praise_ to sink in. No backhanded compliments, no snide remarks. "Never thought I'd hear you say that," John finally said.

"I say it all the time. Just not with words."

"Come here, you bloody lunatic." John squirmed forward until they were snuggled together in a sort-of embrace, sticky sheets be damned. "I may usually lean toward straight, but that doesn't mean I don't know a bloody good thing when I see one. And you, Sherlock, are a damned good thing."

"Even . . . even with the humiliation fetish?"

"Even with that." John leaned forward and planted a solid peck on Sherlock's lips. "It's not something I've ever explored before, but that was fucking incredible. We can negotiate out of bed and I can call most of the shots in it and I think we'll do just fine."

The expression on Sherlock's face abruptly shuttered. "Speaking of shots . . ."

"Of course I didn't send the pictures to your brother, you bloody idiot. I just forwarded them to your phone. Figured you might like to look at them in more detail later."

"You don't want to taunt Moriarty back? Prove you're not a homophobe and you don't mind me being a little damaged?"

John pulled Sherlock close, so close Sherlock actually had to bend his head backward a little bit to breathe and John's lips were right next to his ear. "You're mine," John murmured. "I wasn't kidding about that. If you want to send something to Moriarty, I've got a better idea."

"What?" Sherlock's question was a choked whisper.

"I'm going to make a flag. A tiny, proper one. Maybe a Union Jack. And I'm going to write "Property of John Watson" on it, and I'll jam it into a butt plug, and stuff you with it. We can send Moriarty a picture of your bare arse with the flag planted in it, like Neil fucking Armstrong on the moon. Nothing recognizable about you in the photo, nothing he can use against you, but a big damn territorial message telling him to fuck off. We can do that as soon as I can get to my computer and figure out the closest sex shop that sells butt plugs."

_"Fuck."_ Sherlock's arms tightened around John, smashing their torsos together. "No need to wait, John - have I ever shown you my toy collection?"


End file.
